FROM GILCHRIST TO HALL... End-of-season cricket memories linger on

Press, Volume CXII, Issue 33062, 1 November 1972, Page 14

FROM GILCHRIST TO HALL... End-of-season cricket memories linger on

(By

P. I. PHILPOTT,

, former Australian test

cricketer)

The warmer months have arrived, and the waft of cut grass is in the air. The search for last season’s gear goes on as retirement decisions are reversed.

Boots have been rescued from the garden; shirt and trousers reclaimed from the Salvation Army bag; the bat will not be barbecued this year; cuff-links, collar-studs and tie-pins have been emptied ceremoniously from the protector resting on the mantlepiece. It seems there will be “one more season.” Most of us have retired with honest intentions at the end of a season, only to return at the beginning of the next. Many make such retirements an annual ritual. For it seems that at the end of each season the more unpleasant things remain in our minds, while at the beginning only the good is recalled.

The bowlers’ humiliating thrashings, the batsman’s miserable string of failures, the fieldsman’s dropped catches and panic-stricken throws, the aching muscles and dulled, deflated minds —all are forgotten in the spring. Only the flowing boundary, the well-pitched bosey, the clutching catch and the comradeship remain. The human mind, like the human body, has immense recuperative powers.

Yet as I sit here in permanent and enforced retirement watching the youngsters beginning their first net practice, I can vividly recall my own “end-of-season” memories. Such as that moment when Wes Hall began his approach to the wicket in the Kingston test. The small ground barely permitted Hall’s full run-up and the supporters eagerly lent forward to give him a help-

ful push. As the graceful but menacing approach developed, the 30,000 spectators entered into the rhythm. “Hall-Hall-Hall-Hall . . .” came the increasing chant which reached a crescendo as he delivered the ball—and, if the batsman was hit, as so often happened—was followed by a Colosseum-like cheer which swamped the ground. I must admit that as I batted that day I searched the upper seats of the pavilion for some imperial being with down-turned thumb.

Later, in British Guiana, while batting against the home province and trying to avoid defeat, further problems arose. The crowd was displeased by my performance—certainly I cannot blame them for that—and

displayed their feelings with little sublety. Part of a house brick thudding down at my heel convinced me of their disapproval and, although my first reaction was admiration for the spectator’s powerful throwing arm, this was soon replaced by doubts of the strategy of my situation. Batting in the midst of a hostile, parochial crowd, rum-inspired and stone-throwing, separated from them by only a few feet of wire fence, is not cricket at its idyllic best. I gently explained my

doubts to the local captain, Basil Butcher, who was inclined to sympathise not only as a fine sportsman, but as a potential target for poorly directed missiles. So he relayed my distress to the chief of police who spoke to the crowd over the public address system along the lines that “the good people of Georgetown should show their undoubted sportsmanship by refraining from throwing stones at the opposition players.” This announcement was greeted by a rumbling, prolonged and jeering shout, and the beginnings of some strange tribal war dance. My disappointment at this reaction was only equalled by my later discovery that the long-throwing spectator was an imposter — he had used a giant sling-shot. Then there was my first match in the Lancashire League as a raw 20-year-old professional with the Ramsbottom club. My debut was at Haslingden, but not until a year or two later could I describe the ground. For in 1955 it was under snow, and it took

Vinoo Mankad, the local professional, several hours of persuasive argument to convince this young Australian, immersed in four sweaters, that cricket was possible in that land. In 1960, we met a Bacup XI led by the West Indian, Roy Gilchrist. Only sft 7in, Roy is the only person I knew whose arms seemed longer than his body, and these propelled a ball at' great velocity. He had a pre-1 dilection for bowling headhigh deliveries, whether bumper or bean-ball, and; devotedly followed the’ philosophy of offering these! to all batsmen alike, i whether number one or’ number 11, whether youth-; ful or ancient. Year’ after | year, he achieved the• “triple” — 100 wickets, 1001 premature, retirements, and 100 scalps. As I went out to open our innings the fog began to close in. When I turned to beckon reassuringly to team-mates in the dressingroom, only a grey, swirling wall could be seen, and, as we progressed to the centre, that wall moved in with us. We proceeded to play our! private game within the confines of that hazy, 1 impenetrable wall, with visibility down to about 30; yards, no spectators in view in spite of the occasional; droning and mysterious comment, the dressingl rooms and pavilion almost a figment of the imagination; and Gilchrist quite invisible; but stamping his feet in! anticipation.

For the first time, 1 longed for the presence of; the press — if only as wit-1 nesses — and realised how; important the moral support of team-mates, even at a distance, can be. For no matter how hostile the crowd and opposition, it is always reassuring to see the waving land of a loyal and friendly team-mate as he settles back for another quick snooze. But in 1960 at Bacup, two of us fromRamsbottom, all alone, j came face to face with thedevil in his own misty; environment.

There are many more such moments I could recall. But I have no wish to frighten babes-in-arms, or rival the tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Simply let it be said that I have memories which would lead to the retirement of many men, who would drift silently to bar benches to sit pensive and solitary, as occasional frightening shudders racked their frames.

Fortunately, however, there are other memories—“beginning - of-the-season” memories. But these must await another day.